


The Blog Draft

by GizmoTrinket



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Always1895 Johnlock Fic Prompt Challenge, Angst, Engagement, Happy Ending, I said angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, John Has a Beard, John Watson's Blog, John is a romantic, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Right?, Soulmates, Suicidal Thoughts, irene is sherlock's lesbian friend, mrs hudson is a foreshadowing machine, season four compliant characterization, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 13:21:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15842136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GizmoTrinket/pseuds/GizmoTrinket
Summary: Sherlock takes up a mission and leaves John a folder, a blog draft and an explanation.





	The Blog Draft

**Author's Note:**

> This is as accurate as I can get considering I've only watched season 4 three times and tfp once. It made my poor beta @AelishLuna on Twitter (basically the best person in the entire world) cry. And then I went and changed things afterward; all mistakes are my own.  
> Please heed the tags.

**I wish you were still dead.**

The handwriting was sloppy, but the message was clear. The pen had been pushed down hard - John remembered how angry he’d been and how there had even been marks on the top of the coffee table. He’d run his finger over them, worried that Mary would see, then remembered that she was gone.

John didn’t remember much of what had come after. Thank god Molly had come for Rosie. John felt bad for making her hand the note to Sherlock.

It had been crumpled and smoothed - the crease folding it in half was worn - showing it had been read many times.

Setting it aside and swallowing thickly, John lifted the next item in the folder.

\----

“Where’s Sherlock?” John asked, finally giving in and calling Mycroft.

Lestrade hadn’t heard from Sherlock in ages. Understandable, as he’d been busy with his new relationship with Molly. And, Molly had been occupied with Lestrade so she’d been no help either.

“John,” Mycroft greeted, his voice taking on that same pinched sound it did whenever he was dealing with something unpleasant related to his brother.

“Yeah, hi. You took him off to see his sister ages ago. Haven’t seen him since.”

“And you’re just worried now?”

Just barely holding in the _“Sod off,”_ John instead said, “Well, I’ve been busy. I do have a daughter and Sherlock does his own thing. It’s not unusual for him not to contact me for weeks.”

Mycroft hummed. “Yes, well, Sherlock does worry about little Rosamund. He’s taken quite a liking to her.”

John prayed for whatever gave him the patience for Mycroft’s games in the past and pushed the conversation forward. “Yes, well, that’s the thing. He leaves me out of dangerous cases but he usually contacts me to tell me all about them after.”

He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel about Sherlock’s new attitude to casework. John knew he had to be there for his daughter. But he hated it when Sherlock came back with injuries. Plus, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss it. Sure, he still chased down criminals, but it was different tackling blackmailers that had been cornered. Just didn’t give him the same rush that dodging poisoned darts did.

“Probably for the best. Responsible parenting and all that.”

And, of course, Mycroft knew just what he was thinking. Taunting him, even.

With a deep breath, John tried to focus the conversation. “Well, I went over there but no one answered the door. Called Mrs Hudson but she said she was visiting her sister, been there for a week, and hasn’t seen Sherlock since you took him on ‘one of his little family outings.’” John couldn’t help but use a mocking tone when he borrowed Mrs Hudson’s euphemistic phrase. He didn’t understand why Eurus was still alive, let alone why the whole family visited her regularly.

Sherlock even seemed to enjoy it, as if she hadn’t tried to kill John just as she’d killed his childhood friend.

“And you don’t have a key to Baker Street?” Mycroft asked innocently.

John ground his teeth; if he shouted he’d wake Rosie. “Mycroft,” he warned.

“Very well,” Mycroft finally ceased the cryptic game he was playing. “Sherlock has resumed the case he’d taken before Moriarty reappeared.”

“Your sister, you mean.”

Mycroft hummed an affirmative.

“When’s he coming back?”

“We expect the mission to last no more than six months.”

“So two years?” John asked with dark humour.

“We haven’t heard from him,” Mycroft said. “But that’s expected. We won’t hear until the next phase is complete.”

“Right,” John said, irritated that Sherlock had gone off on another long dangerous mission and left him home. But, what could he do? He couldn’t very well go with him, not now that he had Rosie.

John rang off without requesting that Mycroft contact him when he heard from Sherlock. He was angry. The worst part was that he knew that if Sherlock had told him he was going off on a dangerous mission John would have dropped everything and followed, leaving Rosie to whomever would take her. God, he was the worst father. Sherlock had done what Sherlock had always done, making the call without consulting anyone. John wouldn’t thank him; in fact, he might punch him when he came back.

Rosie started wailing and John put his phone in his pocket. He’d hear it if Sherlock decided to text from wherever he’d gone off to.

\----

John didn’t know what he was looking at. It didn’t make sense. These were the health records of someone who’d been tortured but they had Sherlock’s name on. Lacerations, how many stitches it took to close each one, broken bones, bloodwork indicating malnutrition and—

Closing his eyes, John wished again he had Sherlock’s ability to delete things.

The dates were from the night John had tried to propose to Mary.

The next paper was from the hospital, the date from when Sherlock had been shot. John flipped over to the bloodwork. The STIs had cleared up but drugs were present.

John remembered caring for Sherlock those months after, how Sherlock had been so jumpy and self-reliant to the point of idiocy. John had wondered why, when Sherlock wandered around in nought but a sheet on a regular basis, he’d suddenly become shy and refused to let John look at any more of his body than was necessary to check the bullet wound.

Suddenly, John was accosted with the memory of tackling Sherlock to the ground after seeing him for the first time, the little pained gasp he had let escape. Had John bumped his broken ribs? (Most certainly.) Had he pulled out his stitches? (Probably.) Was it flashbacks from being trapped under an angry threatening man? _(Don’t think about that.)_

There were other notes in the file. Sherlock had gone to see a therapist - Ella, in fact. Her notes were handwritten, paper clipped together under a cover sheet.

John didn’t want to read them. He set them in a different pile.

\----

“You haven’t been by to visit for ages,” Mrs Hudson lamented over the phone.

Rosie threw a plastic ball at John’s head and he narrowly avoided it. “Sorry, I know. I’ve been a bit busy.”

“It’s not like last time,” she said.

“Isn’t it?” John asked. It wasn’t; Sherlock wasn’t dead, he hadn’t jumped off a building, and there hadn’t been a funeral.

“Not really,” Mrs Hudson said. “For one thing, you’re taking my call.”

That made John chuckle.

They chatted. Mrs Hudson’s sister was doing poorly, and Mrs Hudson wanted John’s medical opinion on the different treatment options.

“She’ll need a live-in nurse if she wants to stay in her home,” John said.

“Yes,” Mrs Hudson agreed with a sigh. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

John shared what little news he had of Rosie’s development. He was proud of how she was progressing but each milestone was bittersweet. John kept thinking about how excited Sherlock got whenever Rosie showed her “great intellect” and stage-whispered about John’s lack. That always reminded him that she’d gotten that bit from her mother.

The sound of a text was nearly lost amid Rosie’s giggles and John dove for his phone. It had been seven months; Sherlock could return any day now.

\----

**William Sherlock Scott Holmes**

There it was. Sherlock hadn’t been lying after all. John smiled down at the birth certificate. Of course, Sherlock would abandon the other names. Too common for him. The git had even lied about his birthday.

**January 6, 1981**

How the hell he’d managed to convince Mycroft to put 1979 on the headstone he’d never know.

John’s brow furrowed when he looked at the date again. He’d thought Sherlock’s birthday was on the eighth. The woman had texted him then; they’d even celebrated it on that day the next year. Not that John had thrown a party - Sherlock hated parties - but he’d brought a cake and…

Sherlock hadn’t said anything.

John had never asked; he’d just assumed because The Woman had texted. If she wasn’t texting because it was Sherlock’s birthday, then why?

Dropping the document, John rummaged through the box until he found Sherlock’s phone. The damned thing had to charge, of course, and John looked between the phone and the pile of letters, trying to decide if he wanted to wait for his answer.

\----

“What’s going to happen to the building?” John asked as he helped Mrs Hudson pack her things.

“Oh, I’ve already rented out my flat to a lovely couple but I’ve left upstairs alone—aside from cleaning out the fridge. Sherlock will never forgive me when he comes back if he’s homeless.”

John opened his mouth to say that he had a home but he didn’t know if Sherlock would want to live with him. He hadn’t minded Rosie on the occasions John had fallen asleep on the couch or crashed in his old room. He’d even gotten a cot for her. But, having a child around occasionally and living with one were two different things.

Besides, it’d been a year. Rosie was actively getting into everything now, John wasn’t sure it was a good idea to have her around the thumbs, scalpels and all the other dangerous and disgusting things Sherlock experimented with.

“I’ve locked up flat B and C, just in case. They seemed trustworthy enough but I can’t have them getting into Sherlock’s things and I don’t want them near his lab.”

John frowned. When had C been converted into a lab?

“You’ll come by to check on the place every once in a while, won’t you?”

“Of course,” John muttered. He didn’t really know what he was agreeing to - he was too lost in his thoughts.

\----

**From: The Woman**

**8/1/17**

**He’s there now, isn’t he?**

**You should tell him.**

**Leave it. -SH**

**Don’t make the same mistake I did.**

**This is different. -SH**

**I don’t see how.**

**Kate’s feelings didn’t change. -SH**

John narrowed his eyes, thinking back. Who was Kate? Was that the redhead? The one who’d let them in? What did she have to do with anything?

**And you think John’s did?**

**John didn’t have them in the first place. -SH**

**Oh, sweetheart, you really think that, don’t you?**

\----

The funeral for Mrs Hudson’s sister was nice. Not as nice as the fake one for Sherlock had been, or the one for Mary. It was good and John was able to stomach the ceremony. Mrs Hudson cried quietly on his shoulder as people spoke until it was her turn.

“My sister was brave - far braver than me - though I thought I was the brave one.” She smiled sadly, talking about how her sister had met the love of her life in elementary school, how they courted until they graduated before marrying and having children. She had thought her sister mad, tying her life to a man without playing the field. “She told me, she said, ‘That man loves you, and if you toss him aside because you think you’re too young you’ll regret it.’”

Mrs Hudson’s glance to John wasn’t as subtle as John thought it should be.

“She was right, of course. We’d both met the loves of our lives and only she was brave enough to take the leap.” She paused, looking down at the words she’d written but clearly not seeing them. With a deep breath she looked back up. “She was happy. And when she said she wouldn’t remarry when Bill passed, well, I couldn’t argue. She was the smart one of the two of us.”

The eulogy continued but John didn’t hear it. He was back in 221B, telling Mrs Hudson that he was getting married, her disbelief and laughter when she learned it was a woman. He’d found it insulting, frankly, considering that she knew he only dated women.

Then he remembered how she’d talked about Mr Hudson over breakfast and the stag night, how everything she said had grated on him, that he’d thought her silly, but they were just the same, weren’t they? John knew Mary wasn’t the one. He’d always known. He was just too damned stubborn. He was supposed to be the brave one - he’d been to war.

John wondered why Mrs Hudson had never remarried.

After the service he didn’t have a chance to ask, and John didn’t want to corner her at the wake. He was just wondering how inappropriate it would be if he went snooping when her niece came up to him.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” John said.

“Thank you.” Her eyes went soft. “You’re John Watson, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” John said. They’d met before as she’d visited Baker Street on multiple occasions, but John was the forgettable one and he’d grown used to it.

Besides, he couldn’t remember her name.

“Sorry,” she said.

John shifted uncomfortably. He couldn’t ask, could he?

“Marvin. His name was Marvin Gables,” she said.

“Mrs Hudson’s…?” he trailed off, unsure of their relationship and not wanting to say something maudlin like _“lost love.”_

She nodded before saying, “He died. Car accident. It was completely out of the blue.”

“Sorry,” he said, unsure of what else he could say.

She nodded. “I don’t remember him, at all. Though he used to babysit me. Mum used to say he never married because he was in love with Martha. That he was waiting. She thought they were soulmates.” She smiled at the term.

John took a sip of his drink. This was hitting a little too close to home.

“Anyway, turns out he’d been dying the whole time and never told anyone. I think that’s why he never married, personally. He didn’t want to leave his spouse alone.”

She took a long sip of her drink and watched her aunt share a tearful story with a woman John didn’t recognize. John was trying to mentally get her to move on. He now wished he didn’t know the story.

“Could have been both, I suppose. Way everyone talks about him, he was a bit odd.” She shrugged.

Presently, the woman was needed to say goodbye to someone or something and John made his escape. On the train he texted a goodbye to Mrs Hudson, using his daughter as an excuse even though Molly had said she could watch her all weekend.

\----

There were texts from Irene but Sherlock didn’t respond for months. It was from July that a text bubble appeared that wasn’t grey. John scrolled up to see the date.

**8/7/2017**

**You awake?**

**You’re going to miss all the fun!**

**You shouldn’t be here. -SH**

**Oh, hush. No one is going to notice a dominatrix today.**

**Not in Trafalgar Square, anyway. ;)**

**I’m watching Kirsty Murphy, where are you?**

**I’m not there. -SH**

**Why not? You obviously aren’t busy. Should we meet at 2 for Jordan Bradley?**

**I’m not going. -SH**

**It’s PRIDE, Sherlock. London pride. You’ve sat out long enough. It’s time to come out of the closet already. Come have some fun, for once.**

**I think I see that restaurant owner you had a fling with.**

**What was his name?**

**Chris says Hi.**

**He’s wondering if you’d help him Put up more shelves. roflmao! Is that really what you call it????**

**Are you pouting?**

**No. -SH**

**Sherlock, I’ve heard rumours about a mission you keep putting off.**

**Don’t go down this path again. Sticking your nose into things you shouldn’t. -SH**

**Why?**

**You know why. -SH**

**It’s your last pride. Don’t you think you should take part?**

**We don’t know that. -SH**

**You’re the worst liar.**

**Have you told him yet?**

**You haven’t, have you?**

**He’ll find out, you know.**

**He’d rather know now.**

**I would, if I were John.**

**Text me if you decide to come out of the closet today.**

 

**9/7/2017**

**Coward.**

**Let’s have dinner.**

**Missed you.**

**Not really.**

**She said yes.**

**Congratulations. -SH**

**Kate is coming with me. Tell your brother. He owes you this, I would think.**

**Done. -SH**

**He texted, said I’m not allowed back. :(**

**Guess it was my last London Pride too.**

**We don’t know that. -SH**

**Oh, Sherlock.**

The texts blurred. John was torn between screaming and throwing the phone against the wall, and curling into a ball and dying with the device pressed against his chest.

In the end he just wiped the tears from the screen, set the mobile aside, and sobbed into his hands.

\----

“John, hello.”

“Mycroft?” John rubbed his hand over his face. He didn’t quite believe Mycroft was here, standing on his doorstep.

Rosie wailed again, like she had nearly every hour of every day for the past two days.

“Sorry, she’s sick. Come in.” John tried to blink himself awake. He didn’t know what Mycroft was doing here. Sure, Sherlock had been gone for two years, but that was par for the course. On the nights that John couldn’t sleep he reminded himself that Sherlock would be back when it suited him and no sooner. No amount of fretting would change anything.

After getting Rosie some medicine he managed to get her back to bed. She was so miserable she didn’t even ask who was at the door.

Mycroft had a box set on the coffee table, on top of it was a thick manila envelope and on top of that was a letter.

“I apologize for coming now, I wasn’t aware Rosamund was ill.”

John waved the apology off. He didn’t know if Mycroft was lying but if he was it wasn’t worth the effort to argue.

“My brother’s estate has been settled. I was charged with delivering this to you. Apologies for the delay, we had to be sure.”

“What?” John asked.

Mycroft continued as if John hadn’t spoken. “There won’t be a funeral, this time.” He pursed his lips. “I was against even this but he insisted.”

“What?” Something heavy was settling in John’s stomach.

“You know very well what I’m talking about, Doctor Watson!”

John was taken aback. He gaped at Mycroft, who was running his hand through his hair and straightening his suit.

When Mycroft realized John had no idea what he was talking about his lip curled. “I told Sherlock you wouldn’t see it. My brother always had more faith in you than you deserved.”

John wanted to argue, to interject, to say something, but he had thought a lot about his and Sherlock’s relationship while Sherlock was gone. After the funeral he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He had gone to countless jewellers, trying to find the perfect ring. He hadn’t managed to, though. He’d written a million speeches but discarded each one. Nothing about any of it was right. At this rate he’d decided he would just blurt out, “Will you marry me?” as soon as he saw Sherlock.

It made Mycroft’s comment sting all the more.

“See what?” John demanded.

“The blog draft. He’d written it up so you wouldn’t have to. I thought you’d seen it when you wrote that idiotic notice that you wouldn’t be updating. I agreed that publishing my brother’s post was in bad taste. Still, my brother really deserved more, I thought.”

“What are you talking about?!”

Mycroft ignored him and walked to the door. “Someone will be along with the paperwork for the trust tomorrow afternoon. Also, I believe he left some items for you at Baker Street, _souvenirs_ from cases.” The way he said souvenirs made it clear he knew, at the very least, about the ashtray theft.

“Mycroft!” John shouted as the man slid out the door. The noise did nothing to stop Mycroft but did wake his daughter.

John ignored her for the moment and opened his door, intending to chase Mycroft down. All this talk about trusts and estates and funerals… it sounded like Sherlock was dead.

“Mycroft!” John shouted from his door and he knew he didn’t imagine Mycroft wiping his eyes as he got into the sleek black car.

_No. No, no, no, no… Sherlock’s not dead. He can’t be dead._

“Daddy!”

_No, he promised. He promised to always be there. He wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye._

There was the sound of wet coughing and stumbling footsteps.

John decided Mycroft just didn’t know what he was talking about and he shut the door.

“Coming, Rosie.”

\----

**NOT ORIGINAL**

 

**John,**

**I’m alone and there is nothing interesting in this cell. I’m losing my mind. The voices, the memories are coming back, I can’t delete them. I’m broken. I’m broken and I’ll never be whole.**

**I never told you, I didn’t want you to know.**

**I’m not saying anything.**

**Might as well, you won’t see this anyway.**

**BECAUSE I’M GOING TO DIE IN THIS CELL**

**It’s not the same. It’s not. IT’S NOT!**

**I can’t breathe.**

**You’re not here, this time. You were with me, then. You kept me sane. You keep me right. But you’re not here. You’re with that woman.**

**You’re always with a woman.**

**DEAR GOD ABOVE it is tedious! You’re bisexual, you know. I know you know because you slept with Sholto. Or maybe you didn’t. If you didn’t you should have. He loved you. He still loves you. And that TERRIFIES you. You were flirting with me in the restaurant, you know. I know you were. Because I was still sane then, I could read you like I could read everyone else.**

**I should have taken you up on it, but I’m glad I didn’t. You would have left, if we’d slept together. I know because I asked you on a date when I learned you had one with that doctor woman at your work, and you said you hoped that wasn’t what I meant.**

**You were interested in me until you got to know me.**

**It’s ok, you know. Everyone is like that. At least you stuck around, you were my friend, I think. You said I was your best friend. And you can’t lie. Even when you’re lying you’re not lying. Mr “not gay”! Of course, you’re not. You’re bisexual.**

**The blood on the page is from my fingers. I would smash my violin to pieces and hang myself with the strings but I promised to be there and there’s a chance Mycroft will work something out, I just need to hold it together until I know for sure.**

**If he does fail, I will go insane, and I can’t promise I won’t kill myself. I hope you’ll forgive me if I do. I don’t know if I will or not, I’ve never been insane, but if it’s anything like this I think I will**

**They never let me sleep. In Serbia. Sometimes I turn the lights on and off for hours to reassure myself that they do, that I’m not there.**

**I can’t do this.**

**No**

**I can.**

**For you, John.**

**Just… stay.**

**Oh, you’re not here.**

**Right. I killed Magnussen.**

**He would have raped me too, he said as much, when he came to visit. In the hospital. I think. I had the morphine turned up, so I’m a little fuzzy. I was only doing that for him, so that he wouldn’t see that you were my weakness.**

**He saw anyway.**

**Since you won’t see this I can tell you: the drugs weren’t for him. I mean, they were! But, I could have used something else. I couldn’t do it, John. Not without you. It wasn’t the same.**

**I didn’t think that you would go through with it. The wedding. Not really.**

**I thought I had a chance.**

**Stupid**

**I should tell you now, I don’t think you know. Maybe you do, but I don’t think you’re that cruel. I planned everything, MY photographer wasn’t a murderer. I didn’t mean to turn your wedding into a case.**

**Sorry.**

**I’m glad you have Mary. That you chose her. She’s exciting. She won’t settle for a normal life. She’ll keep you on your toes.**

**She loves you ~~too~~ ; so she’ll only kill those that really deserve it.**

**I should have let her kill Magnussen. I’m glad I didn’t. You chose her. She’d be here and you want her. You need her. She’s better.**

**You’re brilliant, you know.**

**I’ll tell you that much. Just in case Mycroft keeps this in one of his stupid files looking for some code or something asinine. I tried to tell you it was a trick. A magic trick. You know that the only people who leave suicide notes are the people who have been planning for ages or that don’t really expect to die. You told me this. And if I were planning on killing myself for ages would I leave you a note on the phone? I tried to get you to leave! To protect Mrs Hudson!**

**Protect your wife, you’re the protector, John. I’m rubbish at it.**

 

**Page one of ? All other pages were destroyed in the fire. This page is a transfer.**

**NOT ORIGINAL**

\----

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Were you nervous? When you married mum?”

John swallowed thickly. “No.”

Rosie nodded and started a fight with her veil. John straightened it out for her and she smiled, eyes bright and gleaming when they met his in the mirror. At her father’s expression her smile fell.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?” John was anxious to fix her mood. He hadn’t meant to look sad, but he had never figured out how to hide his emotions from her. She was a lot like her mother.

“Why didn’t you ever get remarried?”

John scratched the beard on his chin. “I’d decided not to marry unless it was the love of my life.” With a grimace he mislead her. “And since the love of my life died… Well, I wasn’t lucky enough to have two loves. I only got one.”

Rosie’s chin started quivering. Oh, god, she was about to cry. If she ruined her makeup she’d kill him.

“That’s ok. It’s not all bad; I got you.” He pulled her to her feet and into a hug.

“Oh, Dad!” she sobbed and held him tight.

Thankfully the maid of honour came in and shooed him out, cursing him for making Rosie cry and consoling the overly emotional bride.

He got sympathy from his soon-to-be in-laws.

“She nervous?”

“Yeah,” John said.

“My boy is too. It’s good, don’t you think?”

“Yeah.”

“I remember when I married my wife - I didn’t know where she got to - I was terrified I’d mess something up. We’ve had our ups and downs but we’ve been married thirty-two years.”

John hummed.

“I see you still wear your ring.”

John looked down. “Oh, this thing?”

“I took you more for the standard gold band type. That looks more artsy.”

John hummed again. He got a lot of comments on his ring. He’d found some synthetic stone that changed colour depending on the light; they’d called it a bi-colour sapphire. The stone didn’t capture the range of colours that Sherlock’s eyes had - there were no greens or teals - but he’d found one on discount that had a fleck of yellow in it. He had set it in a white gold band that he’d had stamped with a fleur-de-lis, designed to match the one that had been on the wallpaper. When it was dark, the stone looked silver, like Sherlock’s eyes had in the lab when they first met. When it was light, the blue in the stone shone through.

“I’ve been dying to ask - you’re so devoted, being a widower for so long and still wearing your ring…”

“Oh, this isn’t my wedding ring. I saw it and it reminded me of this time.” John chuckled a bit. “Do you ever have that one memory that is just… that captures everything you love about someone?”

Right then planner called for their attention and John let himself be led away.

\----

**The Personal Blog of Dr John H. Watson**

**Drafts**

**Most Recent**

 

**Hello, all, Sherlock Holmes here.**

**John seems to have abandoned this blog, and yet you all still check it. It’s very tedious. It’s been years,**   ** _years!,_ ** **and yet you all still visit.**

**Since everyone seems absorbed in his blog instead of my own, I’ve come on here to tell everyone to stop checking. John is busy living his life and he’s not going to be updating this ever again because we won’t be on another case together. I’m off to deal with a situation that must be handled by someone of my intellect and I will be updating MY blog when I’m back. The focus will be entirely on the cases, as it should be. John has gone off to his own house and is busy with colds and whatever else idiots with stuffy noses need a doctor for. You’re wasting his time and talents with banality but he insists on going to a normal job.**

**I expect my part in this situation to take me no more than six months; however, I had thought the same when I faked my death.**

**My blog can be found** **HERE** **and I have turned off comments so you won’t bother John. Leave your thoughts and cases on my blog.**

**Sincerely,**

**Sherlock Holmes**

 

**Comments Disabled**

**Post** **Delete**

 

**John,**

**I’ve noticed that you sometimes read your blog, especially the drafts you’ve saved of our past adventures so I know you’ll find these when you have some time to yourself.**

**I understand that this is a poor way to tell you, but I’ve already said goodbye too many times to do it again. At least I didn’t make you watch this time, right?**

**I think you understood on the tarmac, at least I hope you did. You seemed to, but I was rather high already and I have never been able to read you.**

**I’ve been sent back on that mission. The mystery of Moriarty is solved. Mycroft has bolloxed up my pardon, something about accusing Lady Smallwood for the amo thing, when really he just refused her advances. Magnussen has come back from the grave to get me. He blackmails her, I fix it, she blackmails my brother and I end up taking the fall.**

**There won’t be any getting up from this one.**

**I want to make it clear that this was my choice. It was either this or solitary confinement and I refuse to go back to that. This is for the best.**

**If I can manage I’ll leave my body where the next team will find it, but I make no promises. As much as I’d like to be able to give you closure I can’t be tortured again.**

**I think I’ve suffered enough.**

**I know you well enough to know you’ll want to know everything. I’ve ordered Mycroft to deliver my file to you. If I’m wrong, let Mycroft know and he’ll destroy it as soon as he knows for certain it’s no longer necessary. If you don’t make him hand it over he’ll hold on to it forever so please contact him as soon as you’ve read this.**

**I do apologize for the things in the file, John. I tried to destroy them to save you the discomfort but Mycroft caught me. You’ll understand. I can’t say that I’m sorry for those feelings, only that you’ll be forced to read something abhorrent and that it will colour your memory of me. If you care, at all, you’ll destroy the copies Mycroft made of the letters I wrote in solitary without reading them. I tried to burn them but I know he won’t respect that.**

**This is a no extraction mission, John. My entire job is to be captured and killed. Hopefully you’ll understand why I can’t invite you along.**

**Say goodbye to Rosie for me.**

**I’ve written a post explaining my absence if you’d like to stay out of things. I understand that my brother does not intend to announce my death to anyone, including family. He was resistant to telling you, but I insisted. I left letters to Mrs Hudson, Greg, and Molly and I’m leaving them in your care, since I can’t trust Mycroft to deliver them. If you choose not to as well I’ll understand.**

**To the very best of times,**

**S**

**PS, tell Mycroft I forgive him. It's not his fault, but he'll blame himself. I think he knows why I insisted he not to give in, if not, you will. I can’t let him bear that burden too.**

 

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“Took you long enough,” Sherlock said with a smile.

“Shut up, we can’t all be killed in action by terrorists while carrying out secret missions for MI6,” John said and pulled Sherlock into a hug. “Some of us had children to raise.”

“You should have left it to someone else. You were a rubbish father, John,” Sherlock said as he hugged him back.

John laughed and broke the hug. “You should have been there to help me, then, shouldn’t you?”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s really not,” Sherlock said, swallowing thickly.

“I missed you. Every day, every _single_ day,” John said, taking Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock had a pained expression and just as John started to worry, Sherlock said, “I’m sorry. I just can’t take you seriously with that _thing_ on your face.”

John started giggling. “Like I can take you seriously! You look just like you did when we first met. What are you, twelve?”

Sherlock huffed and sputtered indignantly. “At least I chose something I thought you’d like! You show up here looking like that and have the audacity to tease me.”

“Tell you what, you change into that purple shirt and I’ll figure out something else. I don’t think I’m cut out for beards.”

Sherlock tried to hold in a laugh but he couldn’t, he broke into laughter and John started giggling. Mary wasn’t a beard, not really, but god, she hadn’t suited John at all! They fell against each other and the wall of the entrance to Baker Street. Sherlock started mocking some of John’s old girlfriends and John was laughing so hard his ribs hurt. They slid down until they were sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around each other.

“That’s better,” Sherlock said.

John felt it, he looked like he did that first night, cable knit jumper and all. He looked over at Sherlock and saw he was in that thrice-damned shirt. God, he loved that shirt.

“You’re going to ruin me, aren’t you?” Sherlock asked, his eyes glittering in anticipation.

Taking a moment to be serious, John asked, “Can we do it all again?”

Sherlock’s face fell and he was frowning when he said, “Oh, god, let’s not.”

“No, I mean, do it right this time.” John definitely didn’t want to relive that either.

“Oh, if you’d like. We have time.”

“There’s a limit? I thought this was heaven.”

“Please, John. Don’t be so pedestrian. This is better!” Sherlock’s whole face lit up. “There’s crime in the afterlife. Can you believe it?”

“And you’ve been sitting here waiting for me instead of solving things?”

Sherlock pursed his lips and glanced over. “Well, you know I’m married to my work.”

John’s chest seized. “What?”

Manoeuvring onto one knee Sherlock knelt before John and opened a ring box. Inside was the ring John had picked out. “And you’re an essential part of it.”

“What?” John asked, breathless for a new reason.

“Will you do me the honour of becoming my husband?”

“Yes,” John gasped and pulled Sherlock into his arms. “Oh, god, yes.”

“I love you, John Hamish Watson.”

“I love you more, William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

Sherlock pulled back and looked into John’s eyes. “Impossible.”

“Improbable,” John countered.

Sherlock leaned forward and John did too. Their lips met and John melted. Sherlock pulled back, biting his lip and searching John’s face.

John sighed happily. He realized his hands were all over Sherlock, petting and kneading his arms. “I can’t believe I get to see you again.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth pulled up into a smile. “William Sherlock Scott Watson, it is, then?”

John grinned widely. “William Sherlock Scott Watson-Holmes.”

“If you’re going to ruin the symmetry of it then it should be Sherlock Watson-Holmes.”

“If mine is John Holmes-Watson I don’t have to change initials.”

“John Holmes-Watson, huh? Very well, I’ll humour you and be Sherlock Holmes-Watson,” he said as if it were a big sacrifice.

“How very gracious of you,” John said.

The ring, which had been discarded in favour of touching, was retrieved and placed on John’s finger.

“This is the one I had made.”

“Not quite, it actually matches my eyes.”

“I thought you’d find it tacky.”

“Never! You’re a romantic, and when those efforts are focused on me I’m quite fond of that aspect of your personality.” With a pleased smile, Sherlock showed off his own finger. “I made mine to match. Your eyes are much trickier to get right, you know.”

John rolled his eyes and pulled Sherlock into another kiss. It started getting heated and John pulled back so they wouldn’t have their first time on the foyer floor.

Sherlock stood and pulled John to his feet.

“You’re going to think me silly, but I swear you’re my soulmate,” John said.

“Of course I am, I think it’s silly that you ever thought I wasn’t.”

They shared a mostly chaste kiss.

“God, I am an idiot.”

“Not you, John. I wasted all our opportunities.”

“Not all. I thought you _wanted_ me to marry Mary.”

Sherlock looked horrified, rightfully so. “You thought I—dear god, John! Even in our past lives you weren’t that dim.”

“I wish—”

Sherlock cut him off. “Me too. Maybe we’ll get it right next time.”

“Next time?”

“Soulmates, John.” Sherlock reminded him. “There will be a next time.”

“Can we stay here a bit first?”

“Well, sexy army doctor, if you’re going to live here then you should know there’s only one bedroom.”

“Oh, no, and there’s only one bed? Whatever shall we do?” John asked. He wasn’t even going to pretend he was going to sleep on the floor.

Sherlock threw his head back and laughed, giving John a lead in the race up the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Twitter @GizmoTrinket221 and on Tumblr @TheArtOne


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